An Undead Boy

School is a nightmare, or at least it is one now that I'm walking through it. I'm slightly late starting back than the others and it's nearly the end of September now. I think I was killed in June but time has stopped mattering to me now. The hordes of teenagers part like the red sea when I hesitate by the student entrance, deliberating on making that small step into the unknown. Everyone in my year is now older than me; if I hadn't been hit by that car, I would now be sixteen. My birthday was the 5th September but Mum and I didn't celebrate it this year and we probably won't celebrate it ever again. It's sort of been made redundant.

Sure, I know that there aren't a lot of changes to be made in the space of a few months but the subtleties are there in the people I see. Hair has inched slowly to a longer length, styles have changed from one extreme to another and my friends have shot up in height over the elapsed time. I still look like that naive kid who stepped out in front of a moving vehicle. This would have been uncomfortable enough if I were still breathing, let alone being a member of the walking dead.

The first day is horrendous, the first week even more so. Since that long pause by the entrance, I can't go anywhere without somebody staring at me. Should I consider this an improvement? Should I prefer it to the darting glances I've grown accustomed to over the summer?

Mark and James behave exactly how I expect them to. I could have sworn that James held up his hand to me on the first day, as if to wave, but dropped it back to his side when Mark whispered in his ear. Since then, they eye me with disdain when I pass them in the corridor or sit at a table near to them. James sometimes shoots furtive glances at me; he does it when he thinks Mark and I aren't paying attention but I can see his face when he does and so can Mark. He's looking at me with pity. Mark lets him acknowledge me because he must be feeling that way too, despite his facade. It's strange, having my best friends regard me in that way. I never realised how much I miss them until now, especially during the first assembly we had as a year group.

They gathered us in the school hall, only Year 11, so it gave the others an excuse to sit away from me because of all the vacant seats. I ended up sitting by myself at the back of the hall, where no one paid notice to me except those seated closest. They kept shooting looks over their shoulders, panic evident on their faces. I heard one girl telling her friend that I was infected and I'd already nearly touched three other students that very morning. I allowed myself a moment of wild terror. I had never addressed this issue of being possibly infected until now. Before I had the chance to divulge in my fears any longer, the Year Tutor stood up and called for our attention. The subject: our futures.

This was something that I had thought a lot into. We were nearing the end of our mandatory education and usually, at this point, were able to choose what we wanted to do. Did we want to continue in further education? Attend college or sixth form? Get a job or apprenticeship? Considering I had thought it unbelievable to even come back to school, I thought my answer was obvious. My future was more uncertain now in death than it had been in life. Who would want to employ a dead boy of fifteen? Even if I strive to receive top marks in all of my subjects, even if I became an outstanding student with a long list of talents, no one in their right mind would ever entertain the idea of allowing a zombie in the workplace, especially one who looks as weedy and uncharismatic as me. I guess I could go into the film industry? Maybe I could be an extra on a horror based television show? The thought hardly appeals to me - I used to want so much more from my life. I used to have ambitions and dreams.

There's one small comfort though. On day three, I found out that I can walk into my English class with my head a little higher than most. There's a girl who sits at the front; she always wears her silvery blonde hair in a long ponytail and she's more reserved than the other students in here. I can never recall her name, perhaps Elle or Amy, but she smiles at me when I disjointedly shuffle past her desk. She doesn't sneer at me or recoil and I figure that must be something good when everyone else thinks that I'm as fun to be around as the Black Death.

I've even caught her watching me a few times. My seat is three across from her, the one closest to the window, and when I'm having a particularly difficult time dealing with the loud whispers behind my back I look across to her. I'm not sure why I do it, maybe it's to console myself, knowing she's the only person in this school who shows a shred of kindness towards me? It's not like James, the way she watches me, as if with a twisted sense of pity. She doesn't do it in a mean way, I think she's curious.

The other students aren't as aware of her, it's almost as if I'm more real than her to everyone else. I certainly get more recognition. They're not as observant as I am though. Being dead must give me an advantage of appreciating life.

I think that's called irony.

Apart from the Girl with the Ponytail, there is nothing else for me to boast about. My other lessons won't allow me to be unsociable. P.E. was certainly an entirely new experience for me. In life, I was as enthusiastic as any other boy when it came to physical endeavours. I wanted to prove myself, be the best, get chosen first for every team. Turns out being dead makes this hard to do.

I had shown up on Tuesday afternoon and joined the small queue of boys outside the changing rooms. As a group, they edged away from me as much as possible but nothing was said. When we finally entered the changing rooms, each peg had been taken and they all stared defiantly, as if daring me to stand next to them. Our P.E teacher, Mr. Robson, is slightly rounded, middle-aged and good-natured. He usually briefs us on the days lesson once we're all ready and on Tuesday, he bounded in with his clipboard in hand and opened his mouth to start. Then he saw me.

"Why aren't you changed?" he had asked.

I shrugged in what I hoped was a nonchalant way. I didn't think he needed me to point out the lack of peg room, or the way the other boys averted their eyes from me.

"Well, we can't be having this." he said, pointing at a boy named Adam who happened to closest to us. "You, budge up and make room."

I felt heartened by Mr. Robson's unanticipated consideration for me. Maybe I wasn't so alone after all?

"You lot, get going into the sports hall and do a few laps. If I see anyone strolling around on their laps, they'll be doing it again." he barked, tapping his clipboard with the whistle he hung around his neck.

The rest of the class darted out of the room, dodging me as they walked by. Mr. Robson went to follow them but I stopped him.

"Thanks, sir." I said, hoping the gratitude was clear enough in my voice.

He appraised me and nodded. "Don't think I was going to let you off doing P.E. just because you didn't have a peg, boy. By the way, you look a bit off colour. Bit of exercise will soon clear that up."

He left me alone, sucking all the relief I had felt with him. I dropped my bag on the floor and sank onto the bench below my peg, not bothering to get changed. He didn't know. He hadn't heard.

I was devastated. For such a brief time, I thought somebody was on my side again, the feeling of normality I had forgotten over the summer had temporarily made its reappearance. I admit, I was stumped by the fact that he hadn't heard of my transformation but I knew without a doubt it would be a matter of time before some teacher or student clued him in.

With this, I had a revelation. What is the point in trying if nobody cares when you try?

I know why. Since that Tuesday afternoon, I have thought and thought and thought and I have my answer.

Because no one else matters. This is me, my situation and my burden to bear. It doesn't matter if everyone else thinks I'm a monster or a freak or something to be scared of. The truth is, I'm none of those things until I start believing I am.